


Minuit

by The Librarina (tears_of_nienna)



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comfort, Fairy Tales, M/M, Mild Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 05:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tears_of_nienna/pseuds/The%20Librarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Combeferre wears himself out with working; Courfeyrac arranges a respite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minuit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cheesethesecond](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheesethesecond/gifts).



> Wishing The Only Cheese Left the very happiest of holidays!

It was a fact of Combeferre's nature that he was most contented when he felt he had a purpose. It made him a hard worker and an eager one--indeed, he seemed to have difficulty in _declining_ anyone's request for assistance. As he was considerably more approachable than Enjolras, Combeferre tended to be the one of their number most often sought out for aid, and it was not in his character to refuse unless there was no other choice.

He always seemed to find the time to help; Courfeyrac could not see how. Attending lectures took quite a bit of his time, and then Enjolras often required him in the evenings for their meetings, and then there were the daunting piles of books on medicine to be read late into the night. It was a wonder that he found time to eat, and Courfeyrac _knew_ that he stinted himself when it came to sleep. He was accustomed to waking to a cold bed and finding Combeferre with his head pillowed on a stack of books at his desk, a wasted candle distressingly close to his hair.

For all his toil, he was never anything less than genial when he smiled, never less than eloquent when he spoke, and yet one could see it wearing him down, if one knew how to look.

And no one was more skilled in looking at Combeferre than Courfeyrac. He could see the shadows hidden behind the thin gold frames of his spectacles, the yawns carefully masked by a raised hand. The briefest look of resignation before he said _yes, of course, what can I do to help?_

Courfeyrac saw all of it, and he worried. And then, because worrying was no help to him, he began to plot.

After all, even _Cendrillon_ took an evening off once.

First, he wrote a series of letters, and engaged Gavroche's aid in delivering them. Second, and far more daunting, he begged a private audience with Enjolras.

Enjolras' dismay at the thought of spending even one day without Combeferre only served to convince Courfeyrac that his course was the proper one. But Enjolras cared as much for Combeferre as did Courfeyrac, though in a much different fashion, and at last he agreed to conduct the evening's meeting without Combeferre's aid.

His work complete, Courfeyrac let himself into Combeferre's rooms with the key Combeferre had given him months before, and he settled in to wait.

He did not have to wait long; scarcely half an hour later, he heard the scrape of Combeferre's key in the lock.

Combeferre looked surprised to see him there, but not displeased. "To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?" he asked. "You have a scheming look about you."

Courfeyrac put on his most innocent expression. "I only wanted to ask what you planned to do with this evening's leisure."

"Courfeyrac," he said gently. "I have no leisure tonight. There is the meeting, and then--"

"Not tonight," he said. "Enjolras has been persuaded to set you at liberty for the evening."

"He has?" Combeferre frowned.

Courfeyrac nodded solemnly. "It is also possible that your professors have been informed that your grandfather is gravely ill and has summoned you to his bedside. You are not expected tomorrow."

" _Courfeyrac_!"

"Do not shout at me," he said, letting fondness temper the command. "You work too much, and too hard. You wear yourself thin with it."

"But..."

"Will you deny it? The others do not see it, or do not believe they are the cause of it. But the others do not take as much pleasure as I in looking at you." He frowned. "At least, I _hope_ they do not. I do not consider myself a selfish man, but in this matter I believe I would prefer not to share you."

Something akin to _guilt_ flashed in Combeferre's eyes. "My apologies. I did not know you were feeling...neglected."

"Neglected?" Courfeyrac shook his head. "No, never. I did not conceive this plan for _my_ benefit."

"Then why?"

"I... I was thinking of fairy stories," he said, though he blushed to admit it. "And of how _Cendrillon_ required the aid of another to achieve her heart's desire."

Combeferre laughed. "And what do you think is my heart's desire?"

"I would not presume to say. For tonight, I would only have you stop your endless working and _rest_. Perhaps eat supper--a _real_ supper, at a table. Not merely an apple or two while you pore over your books by candlelight."

Combeferre cast his eyes down, a guilty look if Courfeyrac had ever seen one. "Now," he continued. "You have a fine spring evening before you, and a willing servant to attend to your every need. What will you do?"

Combeferre removed his glasses to polish them on his handkerchief. It was a favored method of delaying an answer while he considered the matter fully.

At last he settled the spectacles back on his nose with a decisive air. "I would like a pastry, I think."

"What?"

"A pastry and a cup of coffee, from that little café near the river."

Courfeyrac narrowed his eyes. "That is _my_ favorite café, not your own. You are trying to please me, and that is not the aim of this evening."

Combeferre smiled. "My dear, if you are pleased, then how could I be anything less than happy?"

* * *

They walked together to the café, and settled at one of the little tables that stood on the pavement in front of it, though it was well past dark already.

The pastries were warm and sweet, the coffee dark and very hot, and the next several minutes were devoted more to eating than to speech. Finally Combeferre licked a last flake of pastry from his fingertip--a sight which went unspoken, but not unnoticed, by Courfeyrac--and smiled. " _Cendrillon_?" he asked.

"Hm?"

"Do you really think of me that way? Forced into servitude, dressed in rags, denied every chance at pleasure?"

"Well..." He ducked his head and stared down into the depths of his coffee.

"Then who is my cruel stepmother--medicine? Or Enjolras?"

"It was not meant to be a _precise_ parallel," Courfeyrac replied, wincing. "Perhaps you are your _own_ stepmother, at that. None of us would compel you into such servitude as you lay upon yourself."

"And you, I suppose, are the fey creature that plucks me from my misery?"

Courfeyrac smiled. "If you like."

Combeferre adjusted his glasses, and his smile faded. "I know you think I press myself too hard, but there is so much work to be done. So much left to do, to learn. Every moment I waste is a moment in which I could have learned something--something that might help when--"

"When it comes to a fight," Courfeyrac finished.

He nodded. "And how could I forgive myself if that happened?"

He wouldn't; Courfeyrac knew him well enough to know how the guilt would weigh upon him. "Between Joly and yourself, you know more of medicine than Hippocrates could have dreamed. If the time comes and you must use your knowledge, you will find yourself more than equal to the task."

"Very well," he said, after a moment's hesitation. "Though you are appallingly biased on the subject."

Courfeyrac smiled. "And I will help you, however I may. Though I will not always be able to spring you from your courses. One's grandfathers are rather finite in number, you know, and after a few dozen miraculous recoveries your professors may begin to grow suspicious."

Combeferre laughed, and Courfeyrac could not hide his own smile, at seeing Combeferre so pleased. Combeferre caught him watching, and their locked gazes spoke volumes that neither dared speak aloud.

But their pastries were gone now, and the dregs of their coffee were stone-cold in their cups.

"Are you tired?" Courfeyrac asked. "I will walk with you to your rooms, if you like."

Combeferre shook his head. "No, I am not tired yet. But will you walk with me anyway?"

"Always."

The night was warm, the moon bright overhead. They walked past the looming face of the Notre Dame and over a bridge spanning the Seine. They stopped for a moment in the center, leaning side-by-side on the stone rail and watching the waters rush past below them.

Combeferre shifted his weight so that their shoulders barely brushed against each other, and the touch sent a thrill through Courfeyrac.

If the hour were later, or the weather poorer, they might have been alone, and he might have drawn Combeferre into some secluded alcove for a kiss. But the fine weather had tempted others out of doors, and the moonlight was too bright to hide them in the shadows.

And it was clear by the distant look in his eyes that that Combeferre's thoughts were still of a more serious bent.

"Are you afraid?" Courfeyrac asked, guessing the source of his preoccupation.

Combeferre nodded slowly. "Yes, though not so much for myself as--" he stopped short of finishing the sentence.

"I feel the same," Courfeyrac said into the quiet. He laid a hand atop Combeferre's where it rested on the railing.

Combeferre curled his fingers around Courfeyrac's palm and pressed his hand. "And yet I would not allow fear to turn me from what is right."

"Never." The word had the ring of a vow, and it shocked Courfeyrac even as he spoke it. Yet he had no desire to take it back; he had meant it with all of his heart.

"I am glad we are agreed," Combeferre said. He took a step back from the railing, letting his hand fall away from Courfeyrac's.

"Come," Courfeyrac said. "Let me take you home."

Combeferre only nodded, and they walked together back to Combeferre's rooms. With their hands loose at their sides, it was only natural if, every few steps, the backs of their fingers sometimes brushed. After all, the pavements were narrow, and they were often forced to walk very close indeed. And if Courfeyrac's little finger occasionally hooked around Combeferre's, or Combeferre's thumb swept over the back of Courfeyrac's wrist, no one could have said it was done with purpose.

In not very much time at all, it seemed, they stood together in the hall before Combeferre's rooms. Courfeyrac was not unaccustomed to spending his nights there, for companionship as well as...other pleasures, but this evening belonged to Combeferre alone. If he wished for solitude, then Courfeyrac could never begrudge him that.

Combeferre took Courfeyrac's hands in his. "Thank you," he said softly. "The evening has been splendid indeed."

"And you are not expected in your lectures tomorrow," Courfeyrac reminded him. "Pray do not make a liar of me by turning up."

Combeferre's lips thinned, as though he were fighting to turn amusement to disapproval. "Well, that would be a shame, wouldn't it?"

"My reputation would never recover," Courfeyrac said solemnly. He leaned forward and kissed Combeferre lightly, just at the corner of his mouth. "Good night," he said, stepping back.

Combeferre did not let go of his hands. "Good night? Is my evening of leisure to be finished so soon?"

"Why, monsieur," Courfeyrac replied, wide-eyed, "at this hour, what can you be planning to do?"

Combeferre kissed him in turn, slow and sweet, and that was answer enough.

 * * *

A long while later, they lay together, curled beneath the bedclothes despite the warmth of the night. Moonlight cast crisp shadows through the room, and somewhere in the distance a church bell began to ring.

Courfeyrac counted the tolls in kisses pressed to the nape of Combeferre's neck. _Ten, eleven, twelve_.

"Midnight," Combeferre whispered.

Courfeyrac rose up on one arm to look down at him. "So it is. And look at you," he added, dipping his head to kiss Combeferre lightly. "Still a prince."

**Author's Note:**

> Title is French for "midnight."
> 
> _Cendrillon_ is the name of the girl in Charles Perrault's French version of Cinderella, dating from around 1698.


End file.
